


Laundry

by thedenouement



Series: clexaweek2018 [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clexa Week 2018, F/F, Flirting, Laundromat, meet ugly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-23 04:57:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13780191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedenouement/pseuds/thedenouement
Summary: The "I'm standing in the laundromat in my underwear while my skirt washes and you walk in telling me that I'm using your machine, apparently oblivious to the fact I'm not wearing pants and honestly I'm kind of offended you're not hitting on me" au, in which Clarke doesn't have pants on and Lexa just wants to do her laundry.





	Laundry

A not yet generalized version of Murphy’s Law states that _‘it is found that anything that can go wrong at sea generally does go wrong sooner or later’_ , though to Clarke, it felt more like _‘anything that can go wrong the day of a job interview’_. Regardless of which though – sea or interview – Clarke Griffin had decided that Murphy’s Law, unequivocally, sucked.

As if it hadn’t been bad enough shuffling into the classy, space-grey lobby of the company, her CV hiding the hot coffee stain on her skirt lest the pretentious looking receptionist with a blonde updo and a _look_ decree that she’s a miscreant from the street. (Which she wasn’t. Pouring coffee over her meticulously chosen outfit hadn’t been her idea of a good start to the day and she could strangle the smug bastard who couldn’t be bothered look up from his phone as he did so).

But sitting through the interview, ignoring the fact that she seemed to be experiencing second degree burns had her looking unprofessional and desperate to get out of there. She scoffed, smacking her papers on the neighbouring washing machine. Like there was any way she was getting the job now. She might as well go crawling back to her mother and beg for the internship at the hospital back, exchange her portfolios for scrubs for good.

Souring at the thought, she toed her shoes off and peeled the soaked layer of clinging skirt fabric from her thighs, considering her options.

It was twenty-three minutes to home via the subway and she couldn’t think of anything worse than sitting there, coffee soaked and wallowing in the shame of flunking her interview. The laundromat she stood in how – the first one she had seen when she had escaped the office building, tucked down a side street and presentable enough – was empty anyway, save for the person behind the front desk. Clarke was hidden by a row of front loading washing machines from the waist down, the street was relatively unpopulated and, _dammit_ , she was going to do this. Flustered and resolute, she stamped the sodden skirt down her legs and threw it in the machine, inserting her change and adjusting her Calvin Kleins around her backside.

The thing churned to life, sputtering unattractive noises and she folded her arms over her chest – shameless for now, thinking of how Raven would be proud. The dark-haired girl was probably the most audacious person Clarke knew, loud-mouthed and unafraid. Clarke and Octavia had had to pull her off the bar last time they went out and the Latina had downed too many Tequila shots and if she were here now she would be whispering in Clarke’s ear to flirt with the easy going blonde at the front desk.

But she didn’t. Instead, she leaned against the humming washing machine and appraised the woman who walked in, signalled by the ring of the rinky dink bell.

She was dressed prettily, in a navy cable-knit sweater that cut high across her neckline and low over her thighs, the sleeves rolled up to her wrists, dark washed jeans and Chelsea boots. Her dark hair was pulled back and up into a simple ponytail, her cheekbones were high and her jawline cut a

straight border across her face, and, Clarke thought quelling hot embarrassment, she was walking directly towards her.

Clarke adjusted the way her white, coffee splattered button down fell around her hips and wet her lips.

“You’re using my machine.”

Which was _not_ the response she expected to receive from the girl when standing in a rumbled blouse and panties. Affronted, Clarke transferred her weight to her feet and saw – and _felt_ – seafoam green eyes traverse the length of her body. It was gentler than she was used to. Inquisitive in the way the half-drunken guys raked their eyes over her when they went out wasn’t. But whereas at bars she couldn’t care less, now, she felt oddly defensive, and _incredibly_ pantless.

She straightened, claiming the same defensiveness the brunette wore. “There are plenty of machines. Take your pick.”

“Precisely,” the girl pursed her lips, dusky pink, so Clarke could see the freckle on her top one. Deliciously kissable, she thought, but Clarke was here to claim her ground so she dug her heels in and listened to the girl’s rebuttal. “There’s plenty of machines. And this one –” she nodded to the one Clarke’s skirt was soaking in, “– is mine.” She raised a sculpted brow and it almost softened Clarke’s resolve – if Clarke Griffin was anything, it was a sucker for a pretty girl. But she was also stupidly stubborn and _this_ pretty girl was rubbing her the wrong way. She sat back on her heels, the cut of her underwear riding up her backside and watching the brunette studiously avoiding looking anywhere below her neck.

“Yeah. Well,” Clarke swung herself up so she was sitting on the machine, crossing her legs at her ankles and smiling sweetly – a pantless showdown hadn’t been on her agenda for the day, but neither was flunking her interview. Today, Clarke decided, was the day things were going to _happen_ – for better or for worse.

“You’ll cope, I ‘spose,” she shrugged.

The girl’s fists tightened around the string of her canvas laundry bag – who had a laundry bag nowadays, anyway? It felt meticulous, too organised, frustrating in a way Clarke, the artist who ate breakfast out of coffee mugs and borrowed her shirt off Raven for her interview because her own were paint stained, didn’t know how to explain. She watched the girl’s cheeks puff as she made an inarticulate noise, huffing errant strands of brunette hair off of her face, and moving on to the next machine. She set her bag down and pulled items out, garment by garment. Jeans, knitted sweaters, expensive blouses and smart looking top, socks, sweatpants – at which she almost faked keeling over because the idea of this uptight girl owning a pair of sweatpants suddenly seemed laughable. What would she do with them, anyway? Stare at them folded in her drawer, next to designer blouses and blazers and frown them into existence. She giggled obnoxiously.  
“Are you finished?”

“You own sweatpants,” Clarke noted with immature glee.

“Yes,” the brunette replied, terse. She looked Clarke reprovingly. “I would say I assume you do too, but in your current state of undress…I’m not actually sure.”

“Hah hah,” Clarke retorted humourlessly, “someone spilt coffee on my skirt this morning – right before an interview, I might add – and now I’m here dealing with the consequences.”

Her antagonist didn’t seem to find that as impressive as Clarke would have liked, so she hummed and smoothed out the sleeve of a silk blouse, fingers feeling over the ridges where the seams joined. “So, you’re like, a lawyer, or something, huh?”

“Assistant District Attorney,” she was corrected irritably as the brunette smear stain remover onto one of her blouses in tight, aggressive movements and Clarke nodded, swinging her feet – that sounded right. She could see this girl in a skirt-suit or a tight, tight dress, examining witnesses with the same kind of concentration and application she used to examine her laundry for dust or stains, narrowed eyes and attentive fingers like the blouse was lying to her. Clarke leaned back on her hands. “So, Miss Hot-Shot-Lawyer –”

“Lexa.”

“What?”

The girl swallowed and dropped her hands to the surface of the machine she was working on, the top she was holding falling with them. She turned to Clarke in a mechanical twist of her upper body so that her sweater rode up her back and a strip of skin was visible. Clarke wet her lips. “My name is Lexa.” The brunette said again.

“Lexa,” Clarke tested the word on her tongue. She liked it, she decided. It was interesting, the emphasis on the _‘x’_ and the way it rolled around her tongue was exotic in a way she didn’t expect but knew suited the lawyer, because this girl – this _Lexa_ – was unlike many people she had met before. Many people who would be all over a pretty, pantless blonde in a vacant shop in a heartbeat. She was a hot-mess right now, admittedly, she stunk of caffeine, her hair was working itself free and there were probably circles under her eyes from her late-night agonising over her interview, but she felt offended nevertheless.

“And yours?” Lexa asked.

“Clarke,” she informed her, strangely proud. “With an _‘e’_.” It was an important distinction.

“That’s original,” Lexa hummed.

“My parents wanted a boy.”

“And we’re they disappointed?”

Clarke tossed her head. Her hair was freeing itself from her updo by this stage, she saw strands falling soft around her face and could feel where it had loosened into a messy bun in a way she hoped looked good, but she was fast realising the conventional flirting wouldn’t work with Lexa. “Are you?” she challenged.

Lexa’s throat bobbed. “No.”

“Good.”

Lexa was smiling, she thought. It was hard to tell because of the way she wasn’t _looking_ at Clarke god damn it, but the blonde was sure that was amusement turning the right corner of her lips up and it made something hot stir in her stomach, like the butterflies she would get before her art showings in middle school, as infantile as it sounded. Far from the flash-bang heat she felt with Finn when they ended up fumbling over each other at parties, the kind which deep down perhaps, she knew wasn’t sustainable. Either that or Clarke was just embarrassing herself.  

“So, you’re an artist.”

“What makes you say that?”

Lexa looked haughty but Clarke found it stupidly attractive, the conflicting feeling of wanting to kiss her and punch in her in the face had her fingers flexing. “You have paint under your nails,” the brunette informed her, she took Clarke’s fingers in her own, an action that Clarke was wholly unprepared for and while Lexa was concentrated on pointing out the flecks of teal oil paint embedded in her cuticles and under the nail of her index finger, Clarke was trying to remember how to breath. “Oh.”

Lexa hummed and went back to separating her laundry.

“I was interviewing for the art department at The Ark, this morning,” the blonde admitted, confirming Lexa’s guess and digging out the paint with her tongue licking at her lips. It was there from the weekend, when, after a tense phone call with Abby, she had retreated to the space room stacked with messy canvases and drop sheets to take her frustrations out. Raven had peered around the doorframe hours later with coffee but Clarke had taken the beverage and wished her away, irritably. It hadn’t been a good day. “Not that I’m going to get in now.”

“Are you any good?”

“Are you good at lawyering,” Clarke countered.

The woman looked somewhat offended – Clarke wondered how few people had called her abilities into question before. The challenge ticked in the muscles of her jaw, “touché.”

“So, _Lexa_ ,” Clarke gathered herself. She emphasised the syllables and Lexa laughed, a short sound, hidden behind her teeth so that it sounded like a hiss, but the blonde took it as a personal victory. She wanted to tell Lexa it was pretty, she wanted to tell Lexa _she_ was pretty but it felt like too much so she left the words chewing on her lips where she would keep them until it was safe. “No court today?”

 _Work_ , she thought, work was safe. “Would have thought you’d be out scouring for evidence and examining the defence.” She was bluffing, she didn’t know the first thing about how lawyers worked or what an assistant district attorney did other than what she had seen on _‘Suits’_ – Raven had had her binge the series with her because _‘Meghan Markle’s hot’_ and Clarke had been inclined to agree. She, however, had nothing on ADA Lexa. But with the way she saw the tension leach out of Lexa’s stance, shoulders melting like wax into her shoulder blades, she decided her knowledge-less babble was worth it if Lexa kept shaking her head like that, fond and exasperated so that her hair shifted around the nape of her neck. “Day off,” she closed the door of the front-loading machine and pressed the buttons to make it churn to life, settling her hip on the edge of the machine whilst it filled with sudsy water. She folded her arms to her chest, her sweater shifting around her frame – taut muscles and wry strength, Clarke could see it in the flex of her biceps – and hooked her ankles over each other, tilting her head to look at Clarke.

“Which means laundry day?” the artist asked, unimpressed. She imagined someone like Lexa to be built for the glamour of cleaning ladies and brunching on her days off, peruse court notes in her sleek outfits between sips of a macchiato. But Lexa shook her head. “Plumbing’s broken.”

“Call a plumber.”

“I’m not exactly living the high life, Clarke,” the way her lips wrapped around her name make Clarke weak. “I’m waiting on a friend to fix it. Contrary to popular belief law school isn’t easy on the bank.”

Clarke scoffed. “You should try med school.”

“I assume you have?”

“For a while,” the blonde shrugged, her brows contorted and she puckered her lips. “Wasn’t my thing, I don’t suit hospital scrubs. They’re ill-fitting, not as flattering as my mother made them out to be.” The scrunch of her nose quirked her lips up and Lexa laughed like the melody of rain on the window panes, she wanted to bottle it, keep it on her shelf like fireflies in a childhood bedroom. “Still,” Clarke clacked her heels and faked nonchalance, “surely someone like you isn’t wallowing in laundry on a day off? No big plans?”

Lexa smiled, eyebrow raised suggestively – Clarke wondered how they had gone from barbed comments over washing machines to ill-concealed flirting but it suited her. “Someone like me?”

“Hush,” Clarke demanded.

Lexa watched her sideways through her lashes. “No plans,” she conceded.

“Would you like to rectify the situation?”

Lexa frowned in question.

“Coffee?” Clarke asked boldly. Between them the machines gurgled unattractively, whirring in the stagnant air of the laundromat and Clarke was reminded that she was picking up a girl in her button-down blouse and panties. Score one for Griffin, she thought, grinning.

“You used my machine,” Lexa reminded her, bird-mouthed and arms crossed.

“Wow,” Clarke clucked, taken aback, “okay.” She shrugged. “Apology coffee, then?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Is that a yes?”

Lexa nodded and her smile was beautiful, rare and as exotic as her name and the proud arch of her cheekbones and the line of her jaw. “If you’re paying.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you want, come talk to me on tumblr ([@thealmostending](https://thealmostending.tumblr.com/)) while I try to do all seven days of Clexa Week at the same time as I'm on a wifi-less, technology-less school camp where I can have my phone for an hour a day. I can guarantee it'll be a wild ride


End file.
